Pale Blue & Crimson
by TLX
Summary: Hermione, unsure off her place in the Weasley family right after the war, finds companionship with the brother she knows least. Written as part of the 2015 Teachers' Lounge Exchange for Blue Artemis by CamiliaBlue.


My nightly craft is winged in white, a dragon of night dark sea.  
Swift born, dream bound and rudderless, her captain and crew are me.  
We've sailed a hundred sleeping tides where no seaman's ever been  
And only my white-winged craft and I know the wonders we have seen.  
\- Anne McCaffrey, _Dragonsong_

* * *

She stirs her tea carefully, taking care not to clink the teaspoon against the faded blue ceramic. Steam drifts over the rim, curling lazily up towards the cold kitchen window, where heavy snowflakes blow wetly onto the glass. The tint of green and red lights shimmers softly in the pools of moisture that trickle down into the sill, throwing strange bursts of colour into the dark night.

She replaces the kettle and the milk, toes curling against the cool kitchen tiles, then tucks her book under her arm, picks up her tea, and lifts a candle with the other hand. Her wrist wobbles a little, spilling pale brown liquid on the wood countertop. She sighs as she puts everything back down and searches for a cloth to mop up the mess.

Her wand is tucked away in her nightstand upstairs, and she chides herself for being so thoughtless, her knuckles whitening as she aggressively swipes at the murky water. Diluted purity, she thinks. Muddy.

 _Breathe._

She unclenches her hand.

 _Breathe._

The water that runs over her fingers is cool as she rinses out the cloth, then wrings it out and leaves it hanging over the spout.

 _Breathe._

She lets her eyes lose focus as she stares at her own reflection in the darkened window. Her hair is ruffled above her right ear, and her cheeks are puffy from sleep. She pats the messy curls down, then lets her fingers drift to her forearm, where her stubby fingernails scratch at the scar.

She hates that it's so easy to be angry, now. Where was all that reckless fury when she was standing in the middle of a war? Why couldn't she slip into a blind rage when it counted most, instead of being so bloody methodical about everything? Her rage feels useless here, in the Burrow, with a book tucked under her arm and half a mug of tea in her hand, the night muffled by a thick layer of snow.

Candle once again in hand, she makes her way to the sitting room, where a sofa and two armchairs face a small, unlit fireplace. She folds herself into the corner of the sofa and sets the candle on a side table, but doesn't open her book. She listens to the tick-tock rhythm of the Weasley family clock, avoiding looking at it directly. They all do.

She's afraid of tomorrow. Of George, spending his first Christmas without Fred. Of facing them, and their grief. She's never felt like less of a Gryffindor, even when fear was something tangible and metallic-tasting .

A sinister rattling noise drags her from her thoughts. Her body goes rigid, eyes darting towards the sound, which is originating from the kitchen. The back door shuts with a thud, followed by heavy boots thumping across the tiles. The footsteps still at the edge of the flickering candlelight. She holds her breath. _Why hadn't she brought her wand?_

"Hello?" a deep, gravelly voice calls.

Her shoulders relax and feeling creeps back into her fingers as a familiar scruffy figure looms into view. She raises the candle to her face and gives him a wobbly smile. "Hey, Charlie."

"Hermione! _Shit._ Sorry. What are you doing up at three in the bloody morning?"

She grins at his cussing. She's never heard him swear before; he must watch his mouth in front of his mother. She tilts her head and takes in his disheveled appearance. He's dressed entirely inappropriately for the weather, head to toe in dragonhide, the hood of his jacket sopping wet. A permanently tanned, weathered face peers out from beneath the heavy fabric. She thinks to herself that he has the sort of skin that makes you think you can smell the sun, even on a bleak winter's night.

She clears her throat when she realizes he's still waiting for her to answer. "Couldn't sleep, so I made tea." She looks down to the tattered rucksack dangling from his left hand. "You made it home for Christmas."

He returns her grin. "'Course I did. Got held up at work a little longer than I would've liked, but I'm here for the important bits." He shakes his head from side to side, wet, shoulder-length hair that's escaped from its knot smacking against his face. "It's much too wet and cold out there."

She raises her mug. "Kettle's still warm if you want some."

He nods, shrugging out of his coat. "Thanks. I'll just put on some dry clothes first."

She catches a glimpse of bare skin on his back, the tail of a tattooed dragon poking out, as he starts to lift his shirt over his head, then disappears back into the kitchen.

The dirt under his fingernails bothers her. She thinks of sleepless nights wrapped in fleece coats and her mother's wool scarf, a corner of the tent flapping in the chilly winter breeze. Scrubbing at her hands in freezing rivers, watching the ink or grime or blood swirl away. Tracing her name in the earth by the campfire, only to brush it away with her feet and repeat the process over and over, which was stupid and childish but sometimes she was just so, so bored that she thought she might blow away along with the gray ash and the leaves and the last wisp of hope that clings to her bones.

Then she chides herself, because who is she, really, to make a snap judgement about someone's fingernails? She watches as he breaks thick branches of kindling easily, his hands as rough and splintered as the firewood. No rings, no watch. She supposes they must be a hazard in his line of work. It wouldn't do to have a hand ripped off thanks to a precious bracelet getting caught on a dragon scale.

His lack of adornment provokes a question.

"Why aren't you married, Charlie?"

He glances up from where he's stooped in front of the fireplace, eyebrows drawn, lips tightening. She realizes she's offended him, and mumbles a sloppy apology, her cheeks crimson-tinged.

"No, no, it's all right," he says gruffly, lowering his gaze. "It's just, since Bill married Fleur, mum's been on my case. Instant reaction." He straightens, flicks his wand at the neatly stacked pile of wood, and grunts in satisfaction as flames instantly flare up. He turns to her, scratching his cheek thoughtfully. He's giving her a strange look that seems to ask - will _you_ understand?

"When a Horntail snaps her chains and whips around to tear my jaw off, or a Longhorn loses his temper and decides I'd look better as a withered corn husk than a stocky ginger, there's this moment where all the strength in my body gathers and swells and practically _thrums_ , and...well…" He looks down sheepishly, as if he said more than he meant to. "I've never felt the same way with a woman, I guess."

She nods as if she understands. She's not sure, though, if she's ever felt the same way. Dragons make her blood freeze. She picks at a stray curl, watching it bounce back into place out of the corner of her eye. "Do you ever get scared, though? Of getting hurt...of dying?"

It's the sort of conversation that can only happen here, in a darkened room with firelight for warmth, between two people who are acquainted but not particularly close, in those shaky hours of the early morning where the little voice you keep hidden deep inside you starts to claw its way out.

He slowly lowers himself into the armchair opposite, left elbow propped up, fingers running along his chin. Unlike the other Weasley brothers, his jaw and the space above his upper lip are coated in a thick layer of stubble. "I never used to be," he admits, staring into the flames as he talks. "But...when Fred died...it was like something broke, and all this panic suddenly took hold of me and wouldn't let go. I didn't go back to work for weeks."

She feels like she's being intrusive, but she can't help it. She's suddenly realized how little she knows about him. Her brain itches. "How do you cope now?"

He flashes her a grin, and she's shocked by how drastically it transforms his face. Heavyset eyes crinkle into crescent moons, thick lines around his mouth deepen, revealing one perfect dimple in his right cheek. The crooked angle of his nose even becomes less noticeable.`"I keep those thoughts buried very, very deep."

She returns his smile hesitantly, thoughts drifting to murkier places. These days, it's rare for her to not wake up in the aphotic hours of the night, wide eyes gawking into the obscurity, a thin sheen of sweat on her upper lip. "I wish I could compartmentalize like that. It's so frustrating, feeling everything so intensely, all the time, like there's this constant simmering fire in my throat that's just begging for air."

His smile lingers, but diminishes in lightness. "I've had a lot of practice putting out fires."

Something about the way he says it makes her mouth feel dry; she sips at her tea nervously and hopes that he attributes the redness in her cheeks to the warmth from the flames. She tries to think of something clever to say, but her mind stumbles over the words. When she looks up again, he's staring directly at her, head cocked to the side.

He reaches up to loosen the leather tie that holds his hair together, holding her gaze as he smooths the stringy tresses back into a small half-knot. She reflects that on anyone else, the gesture might seem feminine or trite, but for him the movements are naturally efficient, the muscles of his biceps undulating and tightening. She notices a few stray strands clinging to the side of his neck, still damp from the snow outside.

"How's my brother?" he asks suddenly, breaking the silence and shifting his gaze back to the fire.

 _Which brother?_ She swallows her lame joke. "He's all right. You might miss him in the morning. He wants to get to St. Mungo's early."

He looks back at her in confusion. "Is something wrong?"

"Oh! No. Nothing like that. It's just, Lavender's still there, you know, and he feels partially responsible for her condition because they dated right before the war...I think he feels that she wouldn't have fought, if it weren't for him." She can't believe how inarticulate she sounds. She mentally slaps herself. _Get your shit together, Hermione._

"Oh." His brow furrows. "That's ridiculous. Fenrir did that to her. And she could make her own decisions."

She feels something tighten in her chest. "I know."

He frowns, and says somewhat convincingly, "I'm sure he'll come 'round."

"Yeah."

His expression softens. "She's still the same, then?"

She nods sadly. "The Healers say her mind has tucked itself away, refusing to deal with the trauma she experienced. Every day that passes where she doesn't respond…. Well, it's not good."

She doesn't add that since Lavender's condition stopped improving, she and Ron have barely touched. He nearly flinches with guilt whenever she so much as places a hand on his elbow. She remembers thinking, cruelly, how absurd it was that after years of watching Harry's self-flagellation, Ron was doing the exact same thing and refusing to talk to her about it. She remembers thinking him selfish.

Now, she's just not sure if he really wants her anymore.

"I'm sorry," Charlie says quietly.

She gives him a startled look, afraid that she's voiced some of her thoughts out loud.

He smiles wryly. "Your face is an open book, Hermione."

She stares at her hands. "You're a lot more perceptive than your brother."

He stiffens, then stands, moving to sit next to her on the sofa. She tucks her feet under herself self-consciously, trying to make herself seem as small as possible. He kicks his boots off - worn dragonhide with pewter buckles, she notes - and leans back, one foot propped up on his knee, his hands splayed out and resting on his thighs. At first glance, he seems completely at ease, but she notices a small twitch in his thumb, and idly wonders what he's thinking about.

"What are you thinking about?" she blurts out.

He lazily turns his neck to look at her, his cheek flat against the upholstery as he slouches further into the sofa. "I was actually wondering why you aren't with your family."

She looks down to where she's picking at a loose bit of skin next to her thumbnail. "They're still in Australia. I wanted to wait at least a year after the war before I brought them home."

She pauses, waiting for the usual words of shock, followed by expressions of pity, ending with warnings laced with well-meaning words.

He blinks at her, waiting for her to continue.

She swallows nervously, continuing to pick at her finger. "It's so rare that everything resolves so neatly at the end, like one of those brown paper packages tied up with string. It's not like everyone who believes in blood purity suddenly evaporated along with Voldemort. I know it's selfish, but I just can't be too careful, and I'd never forgive myself if anything happened to them-" She breaks off when his hand reaches over to still her own. She flattens out her palms awkwardly. His hand doesn't move. Strange words are tattooed down the side of his wrist, ending just below his thumb knuckle. She wonders if they're Romanian.

"You sound lonely," he says softly.

To her horror, she feels a thick sob welling up in the back of her throat. She chokes it down, covering it up with a cough. "I'll be all right."

He smiles again, and again it makes her feel a little light-headed, and she's suddenly hyper-aware that she's wearing an old Quidditch shirt of Harry's with several tears near the hem, and her cheeks are puffy and the nail polish on her toes is chipped. She doesn't even consider how her hair must look.

"I know you will be," he says confidently.

"What?" She forgot where the conversation was going. "Oh. Yes."

He stifles a yawn as he says, "I'm knackered. To bed, I think." He stands abruptly, scooping up their mugs and walking to the kitchen. She suddenly feels cold without the warmth of his hand on her.

She stands inelegantly in the doorway leading to the kitchen, watching him rinse out their mugs and wipe his hands on the tea towel. He turns back to her with a small smile, leaning back, the heels of his hands pushing against the counter.

"It feels good to be home," he says, closing his eyes and breathing in the smells of the house. Cinnamon and cedar and sage.

She nods, wrapping her arms around herself. "This place is magical."

He grins, opening one eye. "Such a Muggle thing to say."

She laughs softly.

His gaze drifts up, above her head, his expression turning roguish, lips pursed, the corners of his mouth twitching.

She follows his line of sight upwards, where a perfect, single sprig of mistletoe is dangling from the wooden beam. She feels her neck flush and her palms turn sweaty. "Well...it's late," she mumbles staring at the floor. "Sorry for keeping you up. I know you had a long day, probably lots of travel involved, and then I force you to stay up and talk about death and fear and the war…"

She trails off when she realizes his feet are now directly in front of her. He's wearing blue knit socks. She wonders if they were a Christmas gift from his mother.

Calloused fingers pull up her chin, bringing her to eye level with him. He's not very much taller than she is, but somehow he takes up so much space. His cheekbones are broad and framed with thick eyebrows that are a shade lighter than the rest of his hair. She glances down to his wrist, thickly muscled and covered in pale brown freckles. She thinks about the heat of the sun, because god she is just so, so _warm._

 _I've had a lot of practice putting out fires_ , he'd said.

She never noticed before how blue his eyes were.

She fights the urge to turn around and close her eyes. _You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart…_

His face is barely an inch away from hers. The fingers under her chin slide along her jaw, his palm halting on the side of her neck, his thumb brushing against her earlobe. Everywhere he touches burns, making her idly wonder if he's leaving a trail of scorch marks along her skin, marking her as his.

She gives up and closes her eyes, lets her head rest heavily on his hand.

His lips, chapped and salty, press softly into the corner of her mouth. Everything about him is roughened, untamed. She lets out the breath she's been holding, then breathes in the scent of him; sweat and sun and sugar from his tea. His other hand slips around her waist as he pulls his face back.

She opens her eyes, then nearly closes them again, because his gaze is so unbearably bright. He looks like he's seeking something, something that's so close, he can almost grasp it, but he's afraid it will slip away as soon as he reaches.

 _...their daring, nerve and chivalry set Gryffindors apart._

She leans forward and kisses him fully, lips slightly parted, breathing into him, out of him, her hands at his shoulders, digging into the tough, meaty flesh through his linen shirt. He takes a small step back in surprise, then stills, centering his strength, a fortress of stocky muscle and freckled skin. Her body is gathering and swelling and practically _thrumming_ and she wonders, briefly, if this is what it feels like to work with dragons. His fingers spread along her back, each one a burning torch against her skin.

She feels confusion, then anger, then longing when he tears his lips away, leaning his forehead against hers. "Goodnight, Hermione Granger," he whispers, eyes closed. He grins as he steps away, chest heaving, then he's gone.

She lifts a trembling hand to her mouth, half-expecting to feel her lips crumble into ash.

* * *

The next morning, she notices that the mistletoe is gone from the door post, and wonders for a full ten minutes if she dreamt of him kissing her. Then he sidles over, hair spilling out from its knot, and hands her the blue mug, his fingers brushing against her hip. She smiles into her tea.

* * *

She and Harry creep outside quietly, pulling on coats and mittens once the back door creaks shut. He looks over at her as she dusts off the step and casts a drying charm, his eyes heavy with heartache. "I think they're going to need a minute."

She nods, then sits down, gesturing for him to join her. They sit quietly for a while, peacefully sharing space, staring out at the calm, snow-covered fields. The sky is a crisp, clear blue, lacking any sign of the previous night's storm. She takes in a sharp breath of the brisk air, shuddering as it bites at her lungs.

Harry's leg is bouncing erratically, and he keeps reaching up to scratch at something on his scalp. She places a gentle hand on his elbow. "You should comfort Ginny."

He shakes his head. "I don't want to intrude...this is a family moment…"

"You are family, Harry," she says firmly. "Go to her."

He stands, brushing a bit of snow from his trousers. "What about you? Surely you're family as well at this point…"

She looks back over the frozen fields. She wishes she could explain how things are different, now, with this strange distance between her and Ron, and she doesn't know how to go in there and not feel her heart shatter when she comforts him like she used to, only to watch him pull away."I just need a bit of air. I'll join you soon."

He leans forward to squeeze her shoulder, then she hears the door open and close. She is alone.

She pulls a tiny book from her pocket, restores it to its proper size, then begins to read. She has a Potions essay due when the holidays are done, and the war did nothing to diminish her desire to excel in school. If anything, she studies more voraciously than before, determined to prove...something. She's not sure what.

She starts when the door swings open again, then freezes when the burly redhead in a dragonhide jacket steps out onto the step, an eyebrow raised at the book in her lap.

"Choosing Potions over the Weasley Christmas Dinner of Death and Grief? We must be an awfully depressing bunch," he says lightly as he takes a seat beside her. "It's safe to go in now. George is cracking jokes - he's incredible - and mum is divvying up the trifle."

She closes her book and stares at the cover, her finger tracing along the embossed lettering of the title. "Sorry - I wasn't avoiding anyone, it just felt like your family needed...each other."

He nods, spreading his feet apart and leaning back on his elbows. His knee bumps hers, then stills. She can feel the warmth of his leg through to her core.

His right hand taps against the stair. "I'm rubbish at these things." For a panicked moment, she thinks he's talking about their kiss under the mistletoe, but then notices the heaviness of his eyes, and scolds herself for being so self-centered. "They were all in there, crying and talking and sharing stories about all the pranks Fred and George would pull at Christmas every year, and I just sat there, saying nothing, feeling guilty for not speaking up and guiltier still for how uncomfortable they make me feel."

She hesitantly lifts a hand to rest between his shoulder blades, breathing in relief as he leans further back against her arm. "You sound lonely," she says with a wry smile, echoing his words from last night.

The corner of his mouth twitches. "Grief is lonely."

He leans to his left, letting his head fall to her shoulder, and she braces her arm against his back. It's so unlike comforting Harry or Ron or Neville. Charlie is everything coarse and thick and his back is so wide, her hand barely reaches around his right bicep. She places her cheek against the top of his head, her eyes downcast, staring at his right hand that's dangling loosely over his thigh.

"What does the tattoo on your hand say?"

She can practically hear the smirk in his response. _"If you see the dragon fly, best you drink the flagon dry._ _"_

She snorts out a laugh as she pulls away, her hand trailing back to rest on his left shoulder. "You got that _tattooed_ on your _skin?_ "

He shrugs, unfazed. "Words to live by."

She shakes her head slowly. "You're an enigma to me, Charlie Weasley."

The roguish expression from last night is back. He leans forward onto the balls of his feet, then moves down a step and turns to face her, still crouching. He sets his palms down on the concrete on either side of her. "Enigma," he says slowly, trying out the word, his nose brushing hers. "I like that."

She closes the distance between them faster than she meant to, her nose bumping against his cheek. She smiles against his lips apologetically. He kisses her back languidly, forcing her to breathe, to stay in the moment, to smoulder.

She clings to the front of his jacket, the heat from his throat balmy against her fingertips. Her Potions book falls between them. The loud smack of the cover hitting the concrete snaps her eyes open, and this time she's the one who pulls back, letting her hands fall away from his chest.

"Time for dessert," she says faintly, picking up her book before she stands up.

He stands with her, but as she turns away, he reaches for her hand, giving it a small squeeze before letting her go. "Courage," he says simply.

She nods in understanding.

* * *

He leaves the next morning and says his goodbyes in front of the Christmas tree, holding George for a heartbeat longer than the rest, picking Ginny up easily and kissing her nose wetly, wrapping both arms around his parents while Molly begs him to stay safe and get a haircut in equal measure.

She lingers to the side, tucking her hair behind her ears nervously, hating her uncertainty. Finally, he wraps her in a warm, firm hug, turning his face away from his family as he kisses her temple. His mouth lingers at her ear, warm breath tickling her neck. "Write to me," he whispers.

She nods as he pulls away. He steps backwards for a few steps, making her spit out a small huff of laughter when he winks exaggeratedly. She wraps her arms around herself, shivering when the door closes behind him, a wisp of cold air sneaking into the house.

* * *

"You might belong in Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart, their daring, brave and chivalry, set Gryffindors apart." From JK Rowling's _Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone_

"If you see the dragon fly, best you drink the flagon dry." From Greg Hamerton's _Second Sight_


End file.
